Rationality Zero

by Guillen, JM

  If you think that’s best, Michael. I was interested in running some area background checks, as well. Perhaps other assets have documented data that could help us.

  “That sounds great. I’ll step inside. If we are going to be a moment, I’ll let you know.”

  Affirmative.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped from the car.

  The Booby Trap was exactly what I expected on the inside. It wasn’t that I had a pre-formed idea of gentlemen’s clubs; it was that I knew Wyatt. So no, I wasn’t surprised at the haze of cigarette smoke, or the men sitting at the bar. I expected half-clad girls to meet me at the door, and two did.

  I ignored the way that one of them, the blonde, wrinkled her nose.

  “You look like you’ve had an interesting day.” The shorter one, a pretty brunette, smiled through my stench.

  “Sadly, I’m looking for a friend, and don’t have the time to relax.” I sent a quick link, even as I said it.

  Wyatt Guthrie is currently unavailable.

  “We can be friends.” She was dark haired, and had it in a ponytail. I appreciated that she was fresh-faced, in the way so few dancers actually are.

  I gave her my best smile. “My friend is hairy, and has a loud mouth.” I put my hand on her waist. “I’ll tell you what. Let me get settled in, and I promise that I’ll give you some attention.”

  Her blonde friend smiled. “We’re supposed to give you the attention.” She bit her lip.

  “Maybe you’ll get that chance. For now, can you bring me some bourbon?”

  She nodded, and I walked into the club.

  The girl on stage was dancing to “Friends in Low Places,” which I found eminently amusing. Like the two who had met me at the door, she wasn’t broken, or worn seeming. She swayed her hips, and mouthed the words as she danced. The men at the stage sang with her, yelling the last word.

  “I'm not big on social graces-”

  “Think I'll slip on down to the OASIS-”

  “Seven dollars.”

  I looked at the blonde girl, taken aback by the price. She had slipped up beside me.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope.” She gave me a winsome smile.

  “Seriously.” I handed her my card. Moments later, she was back, and I was sipping the best watered down bourbon the county had to offer.

  As pretty as the girl on stage was, I wasn’t here for her dancing or her creamy skin. I peered through the crowd, looking for the hairiest man I could—

  There.

  Wyatt Guthrie was in the back, sitting in one of the large plush chairs there. A young Asian woman was on his lap, rubbing herself all over him.

  I walked over to a table nearby. I hoped there might be a moment where he saw me, without me needing to actually walk over and interrupt them.

  No. He was paying her for the next song as well, a large grin on his goofy face.

  Wyatt Guthrie is currently unavailable.

  Damn it.

  Anya, I have decided to take you up on your offer. Can you get the Designate to let you override his Crown settings?

  Of course, Michael. There was a pause. Then, I felt a momentary whirring in my Crown, and a click. His channel is open. There was another pause, this one longer. You should be aware that his current blood alcohol levels are .027%. I would suggest the use of—

  Type III viral mecha. Yes, Anya, Thank you. I cut the link.

  I grinned and turned so I could see the look on his face the moment I linked him.

  Hey there, buddy.

  His dismay was priceless; truly a work of art. Right in the middle of a truly perfect moment, where the dancer was rubbing his hairy face onto her chest, I heard him exclaim.

  “Oh, God dammit.” He looked at me, and I raised my glass to him.

  You could let a man finish up. His irritation was plain.

  You do what you have to. Just remember, this entire incident is being recorded on my Crown. The Designates will see my phaneric record.

  Bishop, you are a piece of work. He began talking to the dancer, and pointed at me. I raised my glass to her as well. I clearly saw that one of the words he had used was “asshole.”

  Wyatt Guthrie walked over to my table.

  Wyatt was a bear of a man, standing almost a head above me. He was broad shouldered as well, and always wore some version of “good ol’ country boy.” Today's was jeans, a beat up cowboy hat, and wide sunglasses that looked like they were ten years old.

  He reached out and took the shoulder of the dark haired woman who had been dancing for him.

  “Two fingers of Jack.” He held up a twenty and turned back to me.

  “You’ll want this.” I slid one of my injectors across the table. He looked at it, scowling, but took it. He put it in his pocket.

  I guess the ice princess is waiting outside?

  You know she is. We have to get moving. I’ve already had a rough day.

  You and me both. He smiled at me. Almost got into a bar fight.

  You’ve been offline, so I couldn’t send you my day. I took a swallow of my drink. Let me catch you up. I sent him the patch, porting it to memory.

  Wyatt’s eyes momentarily widened. There was a moment of silence, then, That’s a truly fucked up day. He took his liquor from the girl and waved her on. You aren’t the only one, though. Here.

  I felt the slight whir as he in-patched me. Suddenly, as if the memories were mine, I had a sharp, clear recollection of Wyatt’s last six hours in the Booby Trap.

  It was horrifyingly intimate.

  There wasn't sight, scent, or sound that I didn’t remember in full, three dimensional techni-color. Every drink he had, every woman he had dallied with…

  And yes, he had almost gotten into a bar fight. It was a lean guy, with a shock of red hair. Apparently Wyatt had thought the guy was staring at him, and then the guy had been rough with one of the ladies. Wyatt and the bouncer had thrown the guy out.

  Then, Wyatt had celebrated.

  My friend had certainly made use of his time and money, and I experienced every second, as if it had been my afternoon instead of his.

  Wyatt's tastes were eclectic, to put things mildly.

  He grinned widely at me.

  Dude. Not cool.

  You just try to forget that, motherfucker. He finished his drink and stood. Let’s get out of here. He put the injector in his pocket. I’ll take my medicine in the car.

  I blinked, trying to push the images of Wyatt’s afternoon to the back of my mind. When I stood, he recoiled, his nose wrinkled.

  Bishop. You absolutely reek.

  I sighed, and followed him out of the bar.

  “This is not my place of employment.” Anya's voice always sounded so strange when she actually spoke. It was soft, and nothing like the sterile utility of her links.

  I thought it was beautiful.

  “All I'm sayin' is, maybe you should. It should be. That's what I mean.” The man leaning up against the car had obviously spent too much time inside. His words were slurred, and I was certain he was in no shape to drive.

  “She'll take your idea under consideration, I'm certain.” I walked around the side of the man and opened the back door.

  “Hey, I was just—”

  “We don't care, pal. We gots to go.” Wyatt tipped his hat at the man as he got in the passenger side.

  That man wanted to offer me a job in the restaurant.

  Wyatt looked at me, incredulously, and I gave him a grin.

  It's not funny. He told me he thought I could do just as well as any of the other women in there.

  Wyatt laughed, and put his hand on her leg. “You could, Petrova. I just bet you could.”

  Anya moved his hand, and he laughed again.

  Let's go. I linked them both. Anya, do you have white rooms for us?

  Affirmative, Michael. I have also seen to it that you will be equipped with a shower and clothing exchange.

  Thank God for that. Wyatt rolled
down his window.

  We drove into the desert then, and left the known world behind.

  11

  Miles outside of Las Vegas, Anya pulled into a small, abandoned gas station. Wyatt had been half asleep, but now he sat up and pulled his hat back.

  How about a beer run? His link was just for me.

  I'm pretty certain I haven't seen you take your injection yet. I'd say now's the time.

  I could feel his scowl over the link, but he pulled his pant leg up and took the shot.

  Anya linked in. For the next fifteen minutes, the washroom behind the station will function as our white room.

  I rolled my eyes. All of my stories about today seem to involve extra-dimensional restrooms.

  Anya continued, as if I haven't linked. From here, it's less than twenty-five minutes to the hot site. We have extraction teams that are being set up now, but there is currently no conduit support for this location.

  Still? Like myself, Wyatt had held out for the hope that a Facility team might be able to set up an extraction conduit.

  The unstable Rationality levels of this region have made that a no-go. She seemed firm. No matter how the topiatic coordinates were run, it could not be guaranteed that a conduit would remain stable.

  That's just brilliant. Wyatt was genuinely annoyed. So when we’re in the thick of it, and some ‘rat’s hurling flaming spears at us, we just gotta... what, run out?

  No Irrational has been confirmed on site with that extra-Rational capability, Wyatt. Her head twitched, just the smallest amount. Primary dossier objectives remain allowing me to get close enough to structure alpha to read ambient Rationality. If there are further directives, the Designate will update as required.

  “This is all old news to me.” I smiled at Wyatt. “I haven't spent the last six hours offline at the Booby Trap.” I opened the car door. “I do, however, smell like unwashed spider viscera, so I'll just step along.”

  Wyatt opened his door as well. “I'm there with you. If I have to listen to mission specs for five more minutes, I think I'll be ill.”

  More likely that sensation is the alcohol in your system, Wyatt. Is the viral mecha not functioning quickly enough? She paused. I show cognition and neurogenic connectivity within standard markers, although—

  “Christ.” Wyatt shut the door. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  The station was about what I had expected. The grit and dust of Nevada had drawn the color from everything, and one of the windows had a crack all the way across the top.

  “Will you gearing the tangler?” For all of his rough charm, Wyatt was one of the few men I knew with the intellect for that piece of work. I hoped he’d take it; the man was an artist.

  “If I can get it. I'd love to walk in there and see a couple of pistols, just in case, though. Maybe axiomatic blanks.”

  I nodded. “I’ll probably take kinetic disrupters. It's a sneak mission though, so I'll look around for an emitter.”

  Wyatt shuddered. “Can't stand the things. I don't know what they do to my metabolism, but I'm always starving afterwards.”

  “It's what keeps me trim.” I stopped before the door. “After you, my good man.”

  He grinned. “Anything to get away from that smell.” Wyatt opened the door. Inside, I could see brilliant white light and metallic tabletops.

  Then he shut it behind him, stepping into the conduit geared to his Crown. Wyatt vanished into his white room.

  Wyatt's gearing up, Anya. I'm going in.

  Affirmative, Michael. Remember, we only have fourteen minutes remaining on that conduit.

  Understood.

  I opened the door, and stepped into my own white room.

  This one had been set up differently than the last. I saw that Anya had indeed requisitioned me a shower, and there was a fresh set of clothes hanging neatly to its side. The suit wasn’t exactly in my traditional colors, but it looked a perfect fit, with lots of flexibility.

  Offhandedly, I wondered how much thought Anya had given to the clothing she requisitioned.

  Probably none, of course,

  I stripped off my slacks and button-up, and happily stepped into the steaming water.

  Oh. Oh, wonderful warmth. I didn't dally, however. I showered up, put on some expensive cologne that had been left (was that Anya's idea of a joke?), and redressed. I knew that Wyatt always giggled at my tendency to wear a suit jacket and slacks, regardless of the mission, but it seemed appropriate.

  It was hard to play spy without the proper look.

  I walked over to the storage area and already was far more pleased than I had been at the airport.

  “This,” I smiled to myself, “is more like it.”

  The back wall was loaded with different kinds of firearms, both mundane and Facility specialized. There were also various kinds of melee weapons. I looked longingly at the pair of katana on the wall, but wasn't certain if I would have the neural space.

  Maybe.

  I went for the kinetic disruptors, exactly as I told Wyatt I would. They were sleek, black pistols that felt right in my hand. In the hilt of each was a small, blue injector, exactly like the ones that were used for the viral mecha. I popped them each out and used them. Both hissed as the specialized mecha went into my bloodstream.

  The moment they hit my Crown, I heard the system prompt.

  Bishop, Michael. Asset 108. Do you wish to initiate weapon synchronization?

  “I do,” I spoke out loud. “Please synchronize both for item possession and neural link.” It wasn’t required that the mecha be used for the gun to function— it simply became far more accurate when synced with my nervous system.

  Synchronization initiated.

  I could feel a tingle in my Crown as the mecha altered the parameters of my nervous system. Knowing that the sync would progress regardless of what I did, I peered into one of the cabinets.

  No dampening grenades. No Wrath-class explosives either. I shut the door, and looked in the next one. No, this was only ammunition for traditional weaponry. I preferred weapons that wouldn't run dry, thank you.

  Synchronization complete.

  Oh, good. With that done, I walked over to where the Cradle sat against the wall, humming its otherworldly, high pitched whir.

  I always hated this part.

  The Cradle was an odd device that took up the far end of the room. To a glance, it looked to be a stainless steel table, standing up on one end. Closer inspection, however, revealed that it had handholds, and was designed to swivel.

  Around the Cradle was a circle of white metal, engraved on the surface with grooves for the metallic swing arm that could move almost freely. Offsetting the white was a polished chrome, with odd markings in obsidian on the surface.

  I couldn't read the markings; I had never met an asset who could.

  I walked over to it, moving the swing arm around. At the end of it was a silver and blue rod, sleek and about the size of a ballpoint pen.

  When I brought it close, I felt the subtle snick as it meshed with my Solomon's Crown. I leaned against the table, holding on to the side handles.

  Noiselessly, the table began to shift beneath me, laying me backwards. The arm began moving of its own accord, as it calibrated with my settings and system. It was fast; insectine fast. It moved the rod to various positions around my head, stopped, and then chose another.

  Bishop, Michael. Asset 108. With each word, the end of the rod pulsed a brilliant cobalt blue. Would you like to peruse sanctioned neuralware? Your current classification will allow for three packets.

  Please. I noted the system time. I had eight minutes.

  A collection of spheres appeared in my mind’s eye, each a different packet of Facility firmware. Depending upon what was available, they would grant me limited control over localized axioms.

  Not complete control, of course. The Facility would never license us to behave as Irrats ourselves.

  Mentally, I thumbed through the packets. There was a Veracitor
class packet, which was similar to a low-function dampener, only constantly active. There was also a Caduceus packet, designed for directing and bolstering the viral mecha in our bloodstreams. It was nice, but would take up more than one of my Crown slots.

  That was ok. Neither was really my gig.

  The more I perused, the more I realized that the Facility had given me an unusually wide range of choices. There were packets designated Fury, Adept, and Raptor. I even found a Seraph class packet. That was one I almost never saw.

  Many were the missions where there were one or perhaps two possibilities. Oftentimes, the Designate selected packets for the asset pre-incursion.

  This was… odd.

  I saw a Spectre packet, and considered it a moment. I hadn’t ever used one, but I knew the specs. The idea of being physically insubstantial was appealing, but I needed to be on hand if Anya needed assistance.

  It was close to one of my more traditional picks, but this wasn’t the time to experiment.

  In seconds, I drifted through the array of choices. Titan, Rapier, Tempest… It was interesting seeing the variety, but slightly unnerving at the same time. After all, I wasn't typically given so many options. What did this mean regarding our mission? Did the fact that there were so many choices mean anything regarding the expected danger of this dossier?

  There. The Wraith.

  It only took up one of my slots, and was well worth it. The diaphanic emitter alone had saved me on more than one occasion. It’s a simple axiomatic change, but a potent one.

  After all, when you can't interact with light, it's identical to being invisible.

  It was more than simply that, of course. The emitter was geared for stealth and subterfuge. It dampened noise as well as bent light. The specific specs I could not say, but on more than one occasion it had seemed as if the packet had ‘looked out for me’ in different ways. Guards would become distracted by odd noises, and choose to go another way. Something about the setup of the emitter did more than simply axiomatic alteration, it was as if it ‘knew’ how to assist me in being stealthy, as if it was programmed to make choices on its own, and alter appropriate axioms.